


Kinktober: World of Warcraft

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Asphyxiation, BDSM, Biting, Cuckolding, Face-Sitting, Frottage, Kink Meme, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, Public Sex, Rimming, Size Difference, Sleepy Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: My prompt responses for the first 10 days of Kinktober! ♥





	1. Sleepy Sex (Wranduin)

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I never posted these because I burned out and didn't finish the month. Maybe I'll hit the other prompts next year!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Casual reminder my Wrathion is trans ♥)

Anduin’s private time had become increasingly scarce after ascending the throne, waning to the darkest hours of morning when the city slept and the guards backed away from his door. But even then, they had to be careful, keeping their words at a whisper that night and curling up together under the blankets. He rested his head against Wrathion’s chest, and Wrathion brushed back his hair, murmuring, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Did you ever think about Baine, my king?” Wrathion’s tease came a bit too soft, like he was holding back a yawn, his breath ruffling Anduin’s bangs. The king barely lifted his head to reply, fingers sliding to Wrathion’s waist to support himself.

“Mh, Baine? Maybe…” His fingertips trailed from the dragon’s hip to the front of his pants, voice fading to silence as he got lost in the feel of his skin: the hard edge of a bone that yielded to a soft belly, to the rise and fall of his chest as the yawn finally escaped him. Anduin blinked and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Wrathion’s fingers stilled in his hair. 

“Was too busy thinking about you in Pandaria, though.”

“Is that so…?”

Wrathion’s eyes were closed now. They no longer spilled their crimson glow on Anduin’s face, and as the room succumbed to darkness he found himself bolder, more curious. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of Wrathion’s pants, smooth and sleepy, exploring rather than pressing. They tousled a soft tuft of hair then traced along the edge of his slit, enjoying the wetness they found, the way Wrathion trembled and tensed through half-conscious sighs.

“I thought about you like this a lot,” the king admitted. It was easier to tell the truth to the shadows. “Even after I left the tavern. I used to, ah, keep myself awake at night…”

From Wrathion’s murmur it was unclear whether he had heard or not. After another kiss Anduin continued, fingers sliding down to play with his clit. “I thought about you bending me over that table where we used to play. You know, like something in those books you had. I used to think about that a lot…”

A giggle broke through Anduin’s confession; the dragon’s chest muffled the sound, but could not contain the blush rising up to his ears. Circling the flushed bud of flesh with his thumb, drawing another whimper from his lips, Anduin nuzzled, continued:

“And at the trial I wanted to sneak you into my tent. Thought we could do this without the guards overhearing. I really was naive. Just like you said, aha… ”

Wrathion’s hips rocked forward, ever so slight. And Anduin let his finger slide lower. It sank into him. Wrathion’s body wrapped around his skin, hot and tight and inviting, but sleep threatened to cast its veil over Anduin’s eyes. Resting for a moment in his warmth, Anduin murmured, and everything faded to black.


	2. Watersports (Varrosh)

Call it a reoccurring dream. That was easier than admitting how many nights the thought kept him awake, fingers wrapped around his cock and face pressed against his pillow to muffle the sound. He never worried about being overheard by his Kor’kron when he brought in the odd orc or blood elf companion, but this was different: a whisper, a dirty secret. Memory bleeding into shameful ‘what ifs,’ told on his face in blushes and moans he didn’t _dare_ let anyone see.

It all started with a moment. They had been fighting on the forest floor, Varian’s body pressed against his and the trees casting their shadows across his face. The human had struck him hard on the chest, and before he had time to feel the blade’s sting blood tricked, hot and wet, in a black trail from his skin to the leaves below.

And as he fell to his knees, Varian smirked and pressed the blade to his neck. They stared for a moment, and then shame swept from his chest to his eyes, a choked sound caught in his throat and his lips pursed tightly around his tusks.

That’s where the dreaming began. Varian tangled his hand in his topknot and gave him a tug. Already weak, disarmed, he fell forward. The human pressed him against the front of his pants, flush against the bulge already tenting the garment, and before Garrosh had time to sputter in protest he had freed his cock and was dragging the head across Garrosh’s lips. 

The king’s eyes flashed. He tore at his hair, and when Garrosh cried out his cock was there to muffle him: filling him, choking him, leaving him fighting for breath. There was nothing but Varian’s scent as he pressed his nose against the hair at the base of his shaft. All attempts to spit or claw at the grass fell away, and he yielded to the softness against his tongue and the musky taste of the human leaking precum across his lips.

But that wasn’t all. 

In his dream, Varian always came with a hitch in his breath; Garrosh barely had time to catch his brows knitting together— his only break in composure, faint as it was— before cum splattered hot across the orc’s cheeks and onto his half-parted lips. Thinking he was done, he’d cough and squeeze his eyes closed and smudge his palm over his now-sticky cheeks, but then Varian would wrap his fingers around the base of his shaft, and murmur, firm, triumphant:

“You like that, don’t you, pig?” There was a growl, fierce, like a wolf, and then another splatter, clearer, wet, and even hotter than the last. “Down on your knees where you belong.”

Garrosh always came when he imagined it trickling down his face, catching on his lips, dripping onto the earth beneath his knees like his blood before. Breath ragged and eyes closed, he’d whimper in spite of himself, debased by the memory of his defeat and taken by the dream of defilement at the hands of a king.


	3. Public/Biting (Varrosh)

The Warsong loved public displays of commitment. That much Varian had learned since his reunion with Garrosh on Draenor: after a few feast days, he had even come to expect the dance of manhandling and wandering eyes that seemed to characterize their clan dynamic.

But that didn’t stop the indignant noise that rose to his lips every time Garrosh bit down on his neck.

They sat on Garrosh’s throne. The sun casts its last rays over the cliffs flanking Grommash’ar, and when shadows swelled up in the valley the bonfires seemed to blaze all the brighter. Flames flickered in Garrosh’s golden eyes as he dragged Varian up into a kiss. His fingers tangled in his hair, pulling and jerking, leaving his throat bared like a beast at the slaughter. And Varian could only gasp a quick “what?” under his breath. Garrosh smirked, and yanked back harder.

“They’re watching,” the orc murmured and nodded towards a cluster of grunts by the fire. Varian pursed his lip and tried to look anywhere but their smirking eyes. “They’re jealous of what I have.”

Varian scoffed at that, though the sound came a bit more strained than he intended. He coughed and tried to mask it. “You’re jealous, Hellscream.”

And as if to prove his point, Garrosh bit down.

Hissing as he felt the orc’s teeth catch against his skin, he shifted, all too conscious of the orc’s cock pressed flush against his backside. A hitch in his breath interrupted their banter; by the time he found his voice again Garrosh’s fingers had wandered from his hair to his throat.

“You know I have to go back like this. Bruised like this—”

“An orc’s bite is distinct.”

“I know.” He cursed the smugness in Garrosh’s voice. Irritation and need churned in the pit of his chest, and he rocked back, trying to regain control with what little leverage he had perched up on his lap.

But Garrosh’s teeth had him too tight, and the biting only ceased after the orc found something else to grab at. Pushing up the front of Varian’s leather tunic, leaving him exposed to the warm summer breeze, to the curious eyes of orcs clustered around the fire, he moaned and felt weak: far weaker than he cared to admit. He arched his back, and Garrosh tugged down at his pants. He let out a groan, and Garrosh nipped hard at his ear.

Growling and thrusting together, he got lost in their midsummer dance.

With his cock now free to the hot summer air, Varian rose and turned to face him. He pressed his hips flush against Garrosh’s waist, finding the bulge in the Warlord’s pants and rubbing his own shaft against him. Barely concealed from the Warsongs’ eyes, they worked their cocks together, flesh against leather, lips clashing in something between a kiss and a war.

This time he left himself exposed to those teeth. There was no hair-tugging and yielding, just Varian throwing back his head and letting out a cry. Just Garrosh teasing his head with his thumb and the orc’s ridge of piercings rubbing against him through tight leather pants. He moaned, and Garrosh bit down. There was a sharp pinch, and he shuddered, all kingly composure lost to the wetness and throb of his skin, to the heat of Garrosh’s breath and the thudding of Orcish drums.

It would leave a mark. He would face his men tomorrow tousled and bruised, skin flushed with his guilt and neck swollen with orc-shaped welts. They would watch him, not with the same hunger in the eyes of Garrosh’s guards, but with brows knit together and lips set in a nervous line. He would avoid their gaze. They would whisper about him in the shadows.

But when Garrosh cried out against his skin and his own cock twitched and came against the front of his pants, Stormwind, and tomorrow, felt a whole world away.


	4. Cuckolding (Aggra/Thrall, Vol'jin/Thrall)

“You’ve been with him tonight, haven’t you?”

There was something about the way Aggra asked that always left him unarmed, flustered. Voice low, she barely lifted her eyes from the garment she sewed, fingers stilling for just a moment before pushing the needle back through the fabric. But he intensity in that briefest of looks was more than enough to send the blood rushing to his cheeks. He let out a low ‘hm’ and tried to sit next to her. Shifting, uncomfortable, he gave himself away.

“He’s very big,” she mused. Lips pressed together in a knowing smile, she shot him another look.

The comment made him tense and glance away; this only seemed to encourage her more. 

“Are all trolls like that, or just him?”

“He’s, ah, quite the hero—” Thrall finally managed to gasp. Leaning closer to his mate, he watched her face, watched satisfaction flash in her eyes, before admitting, even lower. “He’s big, yes.”

“Hm.” 

She did nothing to hide how pleased his confession made her, setting aside her needle, sliding her hand to his thigh to rub through his robes and toy with the top of his waistband. Her ministrations left him feeling weak; he always got like this when she touched him, so measured and demanding, with her eyes fixed on his face. 

She palmed at his cock— swollen, over-sensitive— just where his fingers had been hours before. He moaned and leaned back, and his cock ached as it swelled. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing the blood to stop rushing, willing himself not to react so visibly to the memory of being held down and the feel of his wife’s persistent fingers touching and pressing and exploring.

But something about the rush of being controlled stripped the World Shaman of all his defenses.

And when she asked, he was ready to obey.

“Well, show me.”

A moan rose high in his throat and he closed his eyes. Fingers shaking, he fumbled with the lacings holding his kilt in place: his hand brushing hers and his eyes refusing in their desire and guilt and shame to look her square in the face. There was a hitch in his breath, and his robe fell to the floor. The cool night air tickled his overwrought skin. He murmured, almost hopeful, “Like this?”

“No, turn around, Thrall.”

“Okay.”

Bending down onto his knees, he let her spread him and search him, shivering as her finger slid between his cheeks, gasping as it found his opening— already stretched, sore, overworked by the troll who had taken him— and pressed down into him. He shivered and hung his head. He knew he was leaking, knew she would tease it out and spread it between his cheeks and down to his balls, knew the wetness would leave him whimpering as she leaned down to kiss his skin.

He knew he would succumb again to the grasp of her hand and the smooth command of her voice. He knew he would give in, just as he had given in to him, and leave himself exposed.


	5. Size Difference (Baine/Anduin)

He hadn’t intended to end up at the Horde camp that night. But with the wind blowing down off the mountains to beat against the side of his tent— piercing him down to the bones, dragging him back to another night in Kun’lai he had tried so hard to forget— it was difficult to keep his eyes closed.

Pulling his cloak around himself, he slipped past the guards and circled the base of the temple. Orcs and pandaren brushed past him, but it took a furry paw pressed firm against his shoulder to stop him, to bring him back.

“Anduin? What are you doing out here?” Baine asked, low and concerned, and the prince squinted up at him through a gust of snow. A look passed between them. The tauren pressed his lips together as if thinking, deciding, formulating his invitation and weighing how quickly the offer could be misunderstood. 

But Anduin cut him off and made it easy:

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

He hadn’t intended to end up in the tauren’s bed, but words weren’t enough to communicate all the conflict and stress and concern they felt that night before Garrosh’s sentencing. Words yielded to silence, and silence to touches, slow and deliberate at first, and then frantic, almost desperate. Baine sank down onto his sleeping mat, and Anduin into his lap. Their lips pressed together. Anduin rolled his hips.

The tauren’s cock unsheathed against him, and the layer of fabric between them was barely enough to contain it. 

He hadn’t intended to end up between his legs, but there he was: struggling to wrap his fingers around the tauren’s shaft, finally resigning himself to using both hands to keep his long cock in place. He grasped him as firm as he could and traced the dip of his slit with his tongue. He couldn’t stretch his mouth wide enough to accommodate more than an inch, but after a few sloppy attempts to get lower he finally made do by working his hands. He smiled around him, looking up at the tauren with flushed cheeks and hopeful eyes.

“Anduin,” Baine let out a moan. Embarrassed and encouraged, the prince nodded and trailed kisses in a line from his head to the furry base of his shaft. 

He hadn’t intended to end up a mess, but Baine wasn’t quick enough to warn him or pull him back. Cum flooded his mouth and splattered across his face, and all he could do was hold his cock and try his best to swallow. He squeezed his eyes closed. His cheeks burned, and he coughed: soft, flustered, as much from surprise as from strain. 

But then Baine’s paw was there to press against his face, to apologize, to hurriedly wipe him clean. “I’m sorry—” he started to murmur, but just as Anduin had cut him short in the snow he was ready to shake his head and chase away any reluctance. 

“Please. Baine.”

Crawling up into his lap, he loosened his own pants and pressed his face against the tauren’s strong chest. He trembled as he felt a soft paw press against him; he shivered when he realized the tauren could wrap his fingers from hip to hip. Thrusting into that overlarge grasp, all worry about the trial forgotten, all memories of Kun’lai lost to the howling wind, he knew he was exactly where he intended to be.


	6. Face-Sitting (Wranduin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Casual reminder my Wrathion is trans ♥)

Anduin’s face between his legs used to make him embarrassed. It was hard to relax when there was so much to worry about— hoping the prince was enjoying himself, hoping he didn’t look weird as he flushed and tried to burrow into the pillow. He was far too conscious of the way his thighs trembled against Anduin’s cheeks and how wet he knew he was against his lips.

Caught between flustered excitement and nerves, he used to curl away into a ball whenever he got too close. Hand fumbling for the lamp switch, he always covered them both in darkness, not wanting Anduin to see the Black Prince so unnerved, not wanting to admit how worried he was that, despite all of Anduin’s moans and the persistent flick of his tongue, somehow he was asking too much of him.

But that was before Anduin made his request.

“I, ah, can I ask you something?” They were stretched across Anduin’s bed one evening, whispering and tangling together: Anduin’s fingers sliding through his hair and his own hand resting lightly against the king’s waist. 

Wrathion looked up at him and nodded, murmuring a soft “Of course, your Majesty” and earning another flustered sigh.

“I, ah, want you to sit on me. On my face. I, ah, would you—?”

Wrathion’s nails dug into Anduin’s skin. He held his breath, convinced he must have misheard or misunderstood, convinced this must be some kind of awkward dream or attempt at a joke. But when their eyes met, and Anduin’s cheeks shone with flustered excitement, he knew the request had been made completely in earnest.

At first it was difficult not to succumb to his old concerns and new ones. He couldn’t look him in the eye as he rolled off his pants, and his breath caught in his throat as he crawled up the bed and waited for Anduin to lay down. He swallowed. Clutching the headboard, he pressed his knees on either side of the pillow and waited for Anduin to nod. 

The king’s tongue was on him before he even sank down, and he whimpered, awkward, self-conscious. His legs buckled and gave out. Anduin’s muffled moan against his clit made him tremble and shake. 

And now there was nowhere to hide his face. He could only grasp the wood headboard and tilt his head up to the ceiling. He could only feel the king’s eyes upon him, feel every gasp and sigh against his lips as his tongue teased and searched him, and when he gave in and rocked forward the canopy over their heads shivered and danced.

The king’s tongue made him weak as it trailed from one hole to the next. A jolt passed through him as Anduin’s breath tickled his swollen clit, and he couldn’t stop his body from tensing, his thighs from shaking. He cried out and came hard against his face. Squeezing his eyes closed, the pleasure overcame him, and he collapsed: forehead against the headboard, knees all but slumped on either side of Anduin’s face.

And when he slid down to curl up against him, to kiss his red cheeks and to taste his own wetness lingering on his lips, it was with a giggle, a murmur of appreciation.

With the lamp still spilling its light across their faces and Anduin’s flustered smile pressing against his own.


	7. Asphyxiation/Frottage (Varrosh)

After all of these years, Varian hadn’t expected to moan when Garrosh grabbed him by the neck. 

It had been three days of chasing him through Shadowmoon, trying to catch him before the Horde encroached on their territory, trying to cut him off before he could do any more damage and _dig himself deeper into this hole_ , when Varian finally found him at a camp just outside of Shaz’gul. 

After hearing reports of a certain bald orc moving around Embaari, he had assumed Garrosh was trying to move on the draenei; what he hadn’t anticipated was that he’d find him crouching in a cave like this, with barely a mat or brazier to keep him company. He hadn’t planned on Garrosh looking so _old_ when he turned around.

But the lines on his face and the circles under his eyes told a new story: a war lost, a people slipping between his fingers, the Legion’s atrocities mounting in the shadows and threatening to spill across the entire land. Varian paused and stared for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. But like a trapped animal ramming the walls of its cage, Garrosh charged forward in almost desperate fury.

“What are you doing here, Wrynn? Have you been following me?”

“Tracking y—” Varian started to correct, but a gasp caught his voice in his throat as Garrosh grabbed his hair and gave him a tug. Refusing to look him in the eyes, to recognize Garrosh’s hot breath against his lips and the way his face glowered so close to his, he tried to shake himself free. Garrosh glared; the orc’s grabbed the nape of his neck.

They stood for a moment in silence, unspoken hatred and regret and fear and posturing and apology passing between them like the wind. Just as they always had before hurried touches in Northrend and the occasional hatred-fueled fuck in Kalimdor. But age had made them worse at the standoff. Garrosh let out a low, almost desperate growl, and Varian shivered.

“Tracking me? Like a beast?” Garrosh finally sputtered, but he lacked his usual vigor.

“Like a fugitive,” Varian managed to correct: no small feat with Garrosh’s thigh pressed between his own.

There was another pause, and when Garrosh finally hissed his response it all but faded to the night. It was too sincere. Varian couldn’t stand it. 

“So you can put me on display again for the world to scorn, Varian Wrynn?”

“You know that wasn’t—”

“Then why—?”

It had taken a turn that Varian couldn’t bear face, and he had to put an end to it. Closing the distance between them, he smashed his mouth against Garrosh’s, breath hot, tongue probing, pretending there was nothing left to say.

And Garrosh took the bait. Violence was more familiar than words, and with all their clawing and groaning and rubbing together it was easy to ignore the conflict, the need for discussion, that threatened to pass between them. Instead, Varian rolled up his hips. Garrosh’s cock, already half-hard, pressed against him, and the orc bit down on his lower lip.

Garrosh’s fingers slid from the back of his neck to the front, and when his thumb pressed beneath Varian’s chin he drew out a most _unkingly_ moan. Blood flooded his cheeks before Garrosh even had the chance to chide, a little too eager, a little too desperate:

“What, Wrynn? Missed me?” 

Varian tried to shake his head, but the gasp on his lips spoke for itself, and he knew it. His face burned, and when Garrosh clamped down he was ready to yield to that breathless daze when time stopped and Garrosh’s fingers were the only thing left that mattered. 

A moment with no trial, no Divine Bell, no portal or war, when Icecrown’s winds and Ashenvale’s rustling leaves became one with Shadowmoon’s star-speckled sky. 

Varian wasn’t sure how his cock got free, but soon he felt Garrosh’s shaft flush against his, its piercings rolling and teasing as the orc pumped them together. And when he tried to sigh, Garrosh only squeezed tighter; his palms pressed into Varian’s flesh, making his knees buckle and his hips thrust unbidden into his grip.

Those hands, the enemy’s hands, held his life and pleasure between their fingers, but as Varian choked and his cock throbbed and leaked into the orc’s palm, his thoughts refused to address his mortality. Adrenaline surged, but it felt more like need than trepidation: rushing through his veins, coiling at the base of his cock and threatening to spill out across the Warlord’s skin.

He shivered, and the darkness started to rise. His body bucked forward, his back arched, and he released and yielded to that breathless haze. It was as if every nerve in him sparked to life at once. Euphoria coming with his first breath of air, he slumped forward and clung with his arms draped over Garrosh’s shoulders.

And with a few coughs, a few desperate gasps, a few moments spent fighting unconsciousness, he had just enough time to hold him just like he once had: face pressed against his skin, body vulnerable as he slumped into his touch.


	8. Lingerie (Lor'themar/Garrosh)

If Garrosh thought _he_ would be wearing the lace panties that evening, the Warchief was in for a surprise.

Garrosh eyed the garment appraisingly, shooting a glance or two in Lor’themar’s direction, but the elf stood his ground. Arms crossed, eye narrowed, he lingered just out of reach, just far enough away to make clear to Garrosh that no, this was not an act of submission to win the Warchief’s favor. This was a power move; he would bring the orc to his knees. Tapping his foot, he waited, and watched.

“I know your people like _pretty_ —” 

“Oh _please_ , Garrosh. Don’t be daft.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?“

Lor’themar silenced his growl with a sigh. Stretching his hand out to touch the orc’s shoulder, he traced his nail over the tattoo there: an elegant gesture, but with just enough pressure to leave a mark. Garrosh glowered, but stayed frozen in place. Lor’themar couldn’t help but chide:

“I heard when you last visited my city with Thrall the two of you shared a bed. Don’t expect me to bend over for you just because you are Warchief now. We aren’t _all_ so desperate to submit.”

The accusation— and Lor’themar’s fingers sliding down his arm, stopping just an short of his palm to tickle and scratch at his wrist— was enough to unnerve him, and the Regent Lord knew it. Letting out a low ‘hm’ of approval, he leaned forward, and whispered in Garrosh’s ear:

“I thought they’d look good on you, Hellscream. You should wear them to dinner tonight for me, and if you’re good, I’ll lead you back here and show you how well I can serve my Warchief.”

Garrosh scoffed, but the sound caught in his throat. Between his flushed cheeks and the way his shoulders tensed when Lor’themar stepped so close, it was clear the elf and his fiendish ideas, as he would claim, were starting to get to him.

The orc finally managed to protest, but it was short and unconvincing: “They won’t fit.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Garrosh glared at him, red-faced and on-edge. Lor’themar met the look with a smirk.

Their game wouldn’t have been so humiliating for the orc if he had just sat still at the table. But as always, Garrosh was anything but subtle, and between his burning cheeks and the _ridiculous_ squirming he might as well have come to dinner in the panties and nothing else. His Kor’kron glanced between themselves, and Malkorok even questioned him under his breath. The elf delegation, on the other hand, simply looked to their leader, but Lor’themar’s face was as opaque as gold.

Garrosh had been right about the fit. By the time they made it back to Lor’themar’s chamber and the elf unlaced the cords holding his pants in place, his cock pressed up out of the red lacy garment to throb and leak against Lor’themar’s palm. He stroked it slowly, taking time to trace over his slit with his nail and to tickle his balls with the thong’s frilly trim. He didn’t stop teasing until Garrosh had soaked the silk waistband.

“I didn’t know your people liked pretty,” Lor’themar teased, nipping his ear. The shiver he earned was more than enough to make his own cock twitch against the confines of his pants.

And soon he had Garrosh splayed out across his bed, ass raised, face glaring and burrowing into the silk duvet as he fought to hide the shame and want and desperation burgeoning in his eyes. But Lor’themar saw, and he knew. With a soft chuckle, he slid his fingers under the string pressed between his cheeks and eased it to the side. 

Thumb tracing a circle around his hole, he grinned at the hitch in Garrosh’s breath. Cock sinking down into him, he dug his nails into his hips, and put the orc back in his place.


	9. Sadism/Masochism (Gul'dan/Khadgar, Demons/Khadgar)

“You love this,” a voice growled, hot against his ear. Hanging his head, he let the orc grab him by the collar and tug him into a fel-laced restraint.

He had very little to say for himself. He should lie and pretend he couldn’t get free, that Gul’dan had him down on his knees and no arcane blast or ice lance could knock him away. He was trapped by the enemy, he could say. Gul’dan had put him under some kind of demonic spell. 

But the moan on his lips and the way he bowed so easily to the old orc’s will made it hard to deny the truth. 

He wanted this. He stayed of his own accord.

“If you won’t bend your knee to the Legion,” Gul’dan dragged the head of his cock across his lips. Before he had time to prepare— or at the very least, to draw in a breath— the orc thrust forward and gagged him, making him retch. Flustered, unnerved, he glanced up in his direction; their eyes met, and Gul’dan let out a moan. “Perhaps I can make you kneel for me.”

He would have quipped a retort, at the least, but with the orc’s cock pressed firm against the back of his throat, a cough was all he could manage. His eyes leaked, and he squeezed them closed. Distracted by his desperate attempts to catch his breath, he didn’t notice the first demon until she dug her nails into his scalp and forced his nose flush against the hair at the base of her master’s shaft.

“Can you feel the fel pulsing against your skin?” Gul’dan all but cooed: both smooth and distasteful. Khadgar felt him toy with the energy holding his arms in the air, as if tapping into it, sending it rippling hot against his skin, and he whimpered. The succubus jerked him forward again, and Gul’dan slashed his cheek with his nails.

“Is that all you have in you, Archmage? So weak. So helpless. How can you ever hope to stand against the Legion’s might?”

Khadgar squinted at him through his tears, catching Gul’dan beckoning to someone from just out of view. But he didn’t have time to process what he had seen before he was choking again, whimpering, barely able to stretch his sore lips around the girth of the orc’s fel-green shaft.

“If you won’t take the fel willingly, we’ll force it into you. We’ll fill you with it. You’ll crumble under its might.” And then, in a lower, much silkier voice, Gul’dan brushed the blood from his cheek with his thumb, and added, “Have you ever been with a demon, Archmage?”

Again, there was no time to respond. Two clawed hands, large enough to crush Khadgar’s pelvis, and holding him tight enough he feared that nightmare might become a reality, wrapped around his hips. The Doomguard pressed the head of his cock against his hole and took him in one sharp thrust.

And it burned: oh, it stung as the demon claimed him, and he winced, almost scared, with his lips taut around their master’s cock. The succubus tugged at his hair. Gul’dan’s musky scent overwhelmed him and he yielded, bleary and weak to the monsters’ thrusts at both ends. 

His cock ached between his legs, and he swallowed whatever Gul’dan released, too broken to shake his head, too caught to pull away. He slumped forward; the fel-based restraints kept his wrists locked in place, and his shoulders screamed as they yanked his arms back. 

The demon ripped him and scratched him and filled him, and when Gul’dan slid his hand down to toy with the head of his cock, he shivered, and managed to whisper through stilted breaths:

“Please.”


	10. Rimming (Varrosh)

For several months, Garrosh didn’t even try to ask.

Size was going to be an issue, of course. Varian was a large human, but it wasn’t pride talking to think that his own cock would be a…tight fit for the human. Varian clearly struggled to wrap his lips around his head, and though he’d never admit it, Garrosh suspected— between his awkward, almost indignant questions their first time and the way Varian averted his eyes whenever Garrosh grabbed his ass— that the king had little experience bottoming, at best. 

So Garrosh held off, contenting himself with holding the human down and riding him, biting his lip and tugging his hair and finding _other ways_ to assert his dominance whenever a scuffle escalated from grabbing and scratching to sex. He got what he wanted, and reduced the human to blushes and moans. It was _enough_ , until— 

“You never fuck me. Why?” Varian— no, probably Lo’gosh, Garrosh determined from the flash in his eye— shot Garrosh a look from across the glade. 

Tugging his pants back over his hips, he met the human’s gaze with a glare of his own. “Why? Is my ass not good enough for you, Wrynn?” 

“You don’t like it, do you?”

“What? I do!” Garrosh all but sputtered. Cheeks aflame, he growled and struggled with the lacings at the top of his pants, fingers fumbling, jaw clenched and ready to snap. “Too big,” he finally managed between pursed lips. “Don’t want to break you.”

“Don’t you?” There was something about the way the human said it— low, and as infuriating as it was tempting— that made his shoulders tense and his breath catch in his chest. He whipped around, needing to retort, but when their eyes met and he realized the wolf’s spirit had yielded to the king’s, leaving behind only a glimmer of curiosity, a blush, and a searching look, his voice died on his lips. 

He didn’t speak again until he had brushed past him, and even then it was more of a grumble: all but lost to the rustle of leaves overhead:

“I want you to like it. I don’t want my wolf to run away scared.”

It didn’t come up again until they met in a room off the coast of Azshara. With Varian sprawled across their too-small bed, his ragged breath muffled against a pillow and his body already sated, Garrosh’s fingers started to wander. They traced a line from his shoulderblade down to the small of his back. 

It was so much easier to be gentle when the wolf’s flashing eyes weren’t watching. 

He earned a shiver as he traced his thumb along the curve of his spine: it started low in the human’s body, rippling to the surface, reaching a crescendo as he slid the pad of his finger down between his cheeks. Varian’s thighs clenched. Garrosh leaned down and nipped at the nape of his neck. “Well? Is this what you want, Wrynn?”

He felt the human grunt beneath his teeth, and he grinned, nipping his shoulder and sliding his finger lower. As he ruffled his hair he earned a gasp; when he found his opening and pressed against it he felt him tense, rocking his hips against the pillow but squeezing his body closed. This fight between excitement and shame played out in his every jerk and moan, but embarrassment seemed to be winning. As Garrosh had suspected, his body wouldn’t yield. 

“See. Too tight.” Garrosh grumbled, muffled against his back. “I told you.”

“I’m— ah,” Varian gripped the pillow as another tremble overtook him. Even with his face hidden, Garrosh could tell that his cheeks were burning. “I’m not!”

“Relax, then.” 

“I _am_ relaxed.”

“You’re not. You’re embarrassed. I can tell!”

“I’m not!” Varian insisted again, and something about the way he said it made Garrosh grit his teeth. He was trying to help this human but Varian wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t take his advice. Did he think Garrosh was going to brutalize him like those filthy books about orcs the humans peddled in Dalaran? 

No. Garrosh wouldn’t give in to that. With another growl, he grabbed Varian’s ass and pressed it up into the air. “I’ll use my tongue, then,” he snapped, as if this were some kind of threat. Varian choked as if all the air had been punched from his lungs, and fell silent, even limp, in Garrosh’s grasp.

“I’ll make you relax,” he persisted as he slid between Varian’s legs, though his tone was softer: self-justifying, even. He hoped any hint of concern would pass unnoticed as he buried his face between Varian’s cheeks. “Not gonna fuck you bloody your first time.”

Varian whimpered, and Garrosh let out a sigh. He had been right. The realization only strengthened his resolve.

“Just relax.” He tried again; this time the human didn’t protest. Letting his breath tickle and tease for a moment, he flicked the tip of his tongue against his hole and paused. Waited, until—

“Argh—!” Varian’s back arched. A cry caught in his throat. Confused. Embarrassed. All but taken by this new sensation, Varian balled the corner of the pillow up into his fist and fought to hold on.

And Garrosh couldn’t help but grin. He traced his tongue in a slow circle around his opening then pressed lightly against it. He kissed him and teased and sank the tip in just enough to loosen the man around him. Taking his time, he got him wet with his licks and the wetness of his lips flush against his skin. His tusks pressed against his cheeks; his nose nuzzled his hair. His breath hot on Varian’s skin, he worked him open, distracting him, making him tremble.

And when he was satisfied, he slid his finger up to help. Unlike before, he easily worked in the tip, still using his tongue to keep the king wet. He watched Varian’s body open to accommodate him, moaning in spite of himself. Smugness washed over him— he had the human tight in his hands, trembling for him, desperate for him, and it was all because of Garrosh’s skilled fingers and the flick of his tongue against his hole.

He had the king helpless beneath him, and the best part was, he was enjoying it.


End file.
